


Never Not There

by luftschloss



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Ficlet, Gen, M/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-28 16:15:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/309704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luftschloss/pseuds/luftschloss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One of the many things Sherlock Holmes knows for certain is that John Watson is there. Full stop. He just is, regardless of time or place. Sometimes, even regardless of whether John is actually, physically present.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Not There

One of the many things Sherlock Holmes knows for certain is that John Watson _is there_. Full stop. He just is, regardless of time or place. Sometimes, even regardless of whether John is actually, physically present.

“John,” Sherlock muttered from his couch, hands pressed palm on palm before his lips, “I’m cold.”

John had finally stopped bustling around the apartment. Or so Sherlock thought. In any case, there finally was the silence he needed to focus. Or to play the violin. Later, maybe.

No response.

“Make some tea, John. Earl Gray, not green. And most definitely none of that jasmine-scented nightmare you bought the other day,” he announced, rising his voice a little. “I do wonder what you were thinking.”

Silence, still.

Sherlock sighed, and shifted, and went back to – why, deducing, of course. He shifted on the couch; sat up, jumped – strode across the room. Took up the violin from wherever John had last put it, fiddled, played, lay it down somewhere again. Murmured and muttered as he looked out the window, typed into his phone, skimmed through the newspapers. It wasn’t until hours later – it had grown dark already – that he finally caught sight of John. In a coat. Still wet from the rain. Just coming in through the door. Hands full of groceries. The twist to his lips suggesting that he had been in yet another row with the vending machine.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

“My tea, John,” he reminded him dryly.


End file.
